(this is the audience participation part where you say, “Hi Chimpuat!”)_

Most of us have something in our lives that we love, some silly thing that doesn’t entirely make sense, but it makes sense to US. We live in a world where some of those things are socially acceptable. For instance, if I were to identify with some sports team, even if I’ve never played the game, have no financial stake in the team, nor any influence or say on their performance or strategy, society would deem that an acceptable obsession.

However, because I collect toys, and I have them proudly displayed throughout my house, society mocks my “doll collection” and gives me quaint titles like “man-baby” or “loser”.

I could allow that criticism to stifle my enjoyment. I could let it get to me that other people don’t understand my love for Star Wars, nor why I would want to have it on literally EVERY wall in my house.

But, i don’t. Cuz fuck people.

No one lives in your head, just you. No one knows the shit going on in your life, just you. No one knows what hurts you better than you do. Know one knows what frustrates you, no one knows what scares you, and no one can see into your heart and understand WHY you would have toys all over your house as an adult.

The best memories of my life were in my childhood, surrounded by my Star Wars toys, sharing a love for that galaxy with my friends and family. I would play with them for hours, and I had a LOT, and I would make up adventures for them that went well beyond the movies. Star Wars toys helped foster and nurture my imagination, and I am the writer today because of what I learned from playing with them. I passed that love of Star Wars on to my daughter, and showed her how to use her imagination to create whole new worlds and stories, and she is the writer she is today because of Star Wars.

So, when some asshole sneers at a grown ass man collecting toys, and judges me because I’m not “adult enough”, I not only ignore their critcism. I pity them. They’ve clearly never had something in their lives that so moved them, that so touched them, that just LOOKING at a piece of that thing could evoke amazing memories of better, easier days.

I bring this up, because a guy I followed on YouTube (and whom I generally respected) went on a tirade about people who collect “dolls”. I quit following him. His opinion no longer carries weight in my world. Despite whatever knowledge or wisdom I might have thought he had, he no longer matters to me.

I am the person I am, for better or worse. The toys all over my house are a memorial to the childhood I never want to let go of, the spark of creativity that grew in me and my daughter, and the memories of days wasted playing with my best friend in a galaxy far, far away. I don’t really care what anyone else thinks. And, despite the social stigma, having all these toys in my house hasn’t affected my ability to get laid AT ALL.

The people you need in your life, they respect passion, even if it’s passion for something they might think is a little silly. I have plenty of that.

Everyone else can go pound sand.

Love whatever makes you happy. Be who you are. Be who you are, even when it’s unpopular. Even when there are people who would make fun of you. That’s the most important thing I can share with people right now.

As I’m writing this, it’s Saturday. I stayed up too late, and in the immortal words of Officer Murtaugh, “I’m getting too old for this shit”. Seriously, I just want a nap. It wasn’t THAT long ago that I actually got out of bed, so logically a nap makes no sense, but there it is. Was the whole point of my day to get out of bed, eat breakfast, and take a nap? I know a nap would feel glorious. Naps are poorly understood and underappreciated. But, I also know a nap would mean another chunk of time in this day where nothing gets accomplished.

True, I have arranged my life so days where nothing gets accomplished are allowed, but I still feel bad for doing nothing.

I cleaned out and rearranged my office/studio 2 weeks ago, and all the crap I couldn’t find a good home for is still sitting in my living room in front of the fireplace. I could totally deal with that today.

I could do laundry.

I have sufficient chemicals to treat around the outside of my house and the basement to help limit the insane amount of bugs who find their way in as soon as the weather starts turning warmer.

I could keep playing Far Cry 5.

I could go through the most recent photos I took and post something to Instagram.

Or, I could take a nap.

I still have tons of work I need to do as far as building out this site.

I have ideas for new dumb Photoshop moments.

I could write a review of the movie I went to see last night.

I could start filming the YouTube video I have been planning for the last week or so.

Or, I could take a nap

I could re-watch Deadpool.

I could mop the kitchen and dining room because my dogs are assholes who enjoy tracking mud everywhere (please let that be mud, please let that be mud, please let that be mud).

I could take out the trash.

I could go vacuum up all the aforementioned insect carcasses in the rooms upstairs.

I think I can live with the WordPress theme I found. I don’t understand 95% of what it is or what it does or how it works (something to do with magic, or elven folklore, i assume). But, it works. It looks simple, and I’m good with that, cuz I’m just a simple man trying to make my way in the universe.

I’ve been through some shit these past few years. I’ve seen amazing things. I’ve done amazing things. My career path changed. I found a new hobby. I met a girl. I’ve had a LOT of really good sex. I mean, seriously, like a lot. Like, you woudln’t even believe how great this sex was (channeling my inner Trump to see if I can trigger anyone).

But, despite all that, despite all the good, something is wrong with me. I don’t know exactly what. It’s been 8 years since the divorce, and sometimes it feels like I’m still fighting with the same demons I did all those years ago. And, to be honest, it feels like they’ve been winning.

I started seeing a therapist. As we talked, and I reminisced about how fulfilling it was when I was writing more frequently and being creative and doing dumb things, she suggested maybe it was time to go back to it. Chimptopia was always a kind of dysfunctional public therapy for me, so maybe it’s time to lay down on my imaginary couch and tell all the world my problems. But, you know, in a funny way. No matter what happens, I have to laugh at myself, and the world, and all the dumb people and things I see.

So, I’m starting here. I’m going to TRY to write somewhat consistently, at least a couple of times a week. Ideally, more, but who knows? It may be weeks or months (or never) before anyone sees this site, but that’s ok. I’m doing it for me, which is the best reason to do anything creative. Unless you’re Rian Johnson, in which case you’re SUPPOSED TO DO IT FOR THE FANS, YOU ARROGANT DICKHOLE.

But…I digress.

My posts will be random crap like this, or flashbacks to what has happened to me in the past, or reports of places I go and things I see. Yes, I occasionally leave the house now. I’m not a fan of the outside world, but I acknowledge it has SOME value.

In conjunction with this, I’m planning to clean up my YouTube channel and MAYBE start producing new content for that. I have an idea for a relatively serious video about Star Wars toys, because even though i’m creeping ever closer toward the grave, I’m still a stupid kid at heart (who loves boobs and Star Wars, in that order).

Hopefully everything on the site is working (except for the fucking slider thing I can’t figure out). Should be fun. Or, it could be a train wreck. Which is also fun, just not for me. For you. Cuz I’m all about your fun. Really. Honest.

Until next time, be sure to smack her on the ass and say “this one’s for Chimpuat”, cuz that’s what makes Harambe smile in heaven.